


From Now On

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adultery, And may all your Christmases be white, Angst, Can I borrow your hairband?, Canon Compliant, Christmas Eve, Christmas Smut, M/M, Sad Harry, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except a drunk Harry Styles.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>On this night, Christmas Eve, to an outsider looking in, the famous Harry Styles is nothing but a pair of legs, awkwardly sticking out from under the Christmas tree he's currently laying under.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Now On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writeivywrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/gifts).



> Ivy, my love, this is for you. I've been wanting to write something for you for ages. It gave me a little trouble (as you know, with how many times I cried and wailed to you) but I think it might tickle your fancy.
> 
> Endless thanks and praise to Crystal and Jasmine for putting up with me as I wrote this. I should send you each a medal.
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)  
> [Tumblr](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/)

 

_'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except a drunk Harry Styles._

On this night, Christmas Eve, to an outsider looking in, the famous Harry Styles is nothing but a pair of legs, awkwardly sticking out from under the Christmas tree he's currently laying under. _That's how they found him, Harry Styles, who in the end was but a pair of legs, sing-songing poems to himself, drunk off his ass._  
  
It'll be hours before they find him, his mum and Robin coming down to the kitchen for tea at sunrise, Gemma after breakfast, when she comes by for presents. So this will be his fate until then, staring up through the twinkling branches, picking out the ornaments he made as a child, paper snowflakes and slightly crushed angel halos. Gemma made sure to hang her homemade snow globe ornament at eye level, all the snow inside settled at the bottom. Harry put his crooked H-A-R-R-Y string of paper gingerbread from one of their first Christmases in this house, way at the top where she couldn't reach, just to take the piss. It's all upside down as Harry's eyes try to focus and pick out each individual piece to the tree's puzzle. Robin's record player continues to turn, long since scratching out nothing but white noise, which is quite fitting, what with the white snow falling outside. It won't stick though, the news said it wouldn't be a white Christmas this year, which is a shame. Harry loves those.  
  
Harry hums to himself with a sigh. It's so quiet as he lays there, pondering. _This is the life I leads now,_ he thinks. After the roast mum made and the wine he ended up taking swigs of straight from the bottle, after he texted Lou a happy birthday, after he crawled under the tree like he used to as a child, this is all that's left. This is his life, a boy so famous he can hardly walk outside, a young man alone alone alone. He says the rhyme again, softly up into the pine needles, his fingers tangled in his hair, and sighs at the thought.  
  
_'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except a drunk Harry Styles._  
  
It has a ring to it, Harry reasons, rubbing his socked feet together near the fire that felt like a warm bath, something Harry hasn't indulged in for quite some time. His mind dips immediately to wondering if he said the poem right, if the rhyme has any sort of meter. Poems have meters, don't they. He's a songwriter, he knows how to rhyme and string thoughts into feelings, but he could never do poems. Not right, anyways. He can't do a lot of things right.  
  
"I can do _some_ things right," Harry slurs out loud, arguing with himself.  
  
Harry's always been a giggly drunk, that is, when he's not being argumentative or pissy. His lips become impossibly redder, his gait off kilter, his accent thicker. After their cousins snuck bottles into their bedrooms, Gemma used to make him tap-dance, used to turn on impossible-to-tap-dance-to music, just to see him fall over. Sometimes to prove her wrong, he came up with routines that were quite good, if he does say so himself. He finds his toes bouncing slightly, as he stares up into the tree some more, repeating the poem, remembering his dances.  
  
"I'm a good dancer," Harry nods matter-of-factly. "I can dance. And he can't."  
  
Harry hates himself in that moment, as his giggly self makes a sharp left into bitter territory. He pulls at his hair harder. Harry promised himself he wouldn't do this, wouldn't let him into his thoughts, wouldn't entertain the fact that he's not here. Truth be told, Harry shouldn't even be here himself. Los Angeles is so lovely this time of year, never changing, constantly crisp just on the right side of warm, and miles away from everything. From him.  
  
Their flights out of New York should've taken them to different places, Harry off on his own like he has been for months, tucked away and hiding from the boys and their team. A loner, that's what they call him now. He's as charming as ever, sweet as sin, and yet closed off. He's loud and explosive when in a crowded room, until suddenly he's not. Quiet. That's what mum told him, when he called the morning after "SNL."  
  
The morning after the party Harry attended and blew up with his smile, the one Zayn didn't attend. The morning when Zayn stayed behind and missed his flight, texting Harry to come to the hotel. Harry ignored it all and sank further onto a friend of a friend's couch, somewhere in Chelsea, and pressed his phone to his ear with a sigh.  
  
"You're quiet, love," his mum whispered. "I feel like… I feel you're slipping away. I wish I could see you."  
  
Harry's never been one to make his mum ask something of him more than once, so he changed his flight and spent the next few days with his feet tucked under her legs on the couch. She ran her fingers through his messy hair and scratched near his ears, because Harry had an idea that she knew what was wrong. What's been wrong.  
  
Harry shifts his body slightly, tucking his hands up under his head, and lets himself have a few minutes. It's no use really, ignoring _him_ now that he's officially broken through Harry's drunken haze and flooded his thoughts. He's right there, Zayn Malik. He's always right there, and it's pathetic that Harry allows it.  
  
The last time they spoke was on the flight to Australia. Their flight. After Zayn missed the initial round of promo, after they did the West Coast press, he showed up at Harry's door with a bag over his shoulder. Everyone had gone to Australia, as planned, without Harry, like the new normal. Harry had an earache anyhow, he reasoned. But there Zayn was, shrugging his shoulders, gripping his new phone in his hand, and Harry wordlessly stepped back to let him in. Harry showed him around, into each room, Zayn running his fingers along the furniture. He took a shower in Harry's bathroom and afterwards Harry found a string of floss in the bin, which very nearly made him cry.  
  
When they fucked that night, slow like they never could, they laughed when Harry accidentally smacked himself in the face. Zayn's eyes about disappeared he laughed so hard, all the while still snapping his hips forward, Harry's toes digging into his thighs.  
  
Zayn held him close afterwards, and made him tea the next morning, which they had in the back garden, near the pool Harry likes to get the leaves out of himself, when he's in town. He has a little pool skimmer and everything. They fucked in the guest bedroom because it has a sick view of the canyon, in the garage against Harry's car because they're ridiculous, even in the kitchen, right there on the floor.  
  
But the flight was supposed to be different. Harry was excited to share airspace with Zayn, even after two days of being holed up together. They had a thing with flights, dating back to some of their first, when Harry had to hold Zayn's hand through each takeoff. Harry couldn't wait to have an entire flight to themselves, drinking champagne because it still feels posh, to drink bubbly on private jets. They'd have some of the team and security with them, but all the same, it was going to be a good one.  
  
Harry sucked Zayn's dick near the drink cart, tucked away while the cabin crew served everyone up front. Harry almost smiled, tried his best with Zayn's cock in his mouth, he was so giddy over it. He felt a shift happening, something bending, afterwards. Zayn actually held him close to his chest when they watched a film. He whispered plot points into Harry's ear when he got distracted, like he used to when Harry could hardly concentrate at sixteen.  
  
It felt different, like they were something again, after months of nothing. Harry had visions of them tucking their heads together in hotel rooms, taking baths like they used to, eating fruit for breakfast, overlooking the ocean. Harry could almost taste it, the ease they fell into during the second tour, when they shot the movie. And maybe Harry's an idiot for giving into it, for letting the thoughts infiltrate the evidence he's collected, for going against every bullet point on the list of why it can't happen. But Harry's always been a tad naïve, too trusting, too reliant on his emotions.  
  
Zayn switched his phone on the second they landed on Australian soil, to check his messages. Harry can't say he wasn't about to do the same, had his hand in his pocket and everything, as he eyed Zayn. Zayn pinched his lip between his fingers, hunched over his phone, until suddenly he brought it to his ear.  
  
She called and he answered.  
  
Harry had to walk away from the hushed words, the sweet nothings whispered back and forth, the sounds he's heard on a loop in his head for what seems like decades. Harry couldn't stand to watch the apologies or whatever else they'd say to each other, after a fight that must've brought Zayn to Harry's doorstep in the first place.  
  
Zayn tried to hold his hand at the hotel. He gave Harry the look they've both perfected, that meant they needed a minute to themselves. He texted a few times, asked to see him outside of work, caught his attention in various interviews. And when the cameras were on, Harry indulged slightly, leaned in, smiled back. The second they could breathe normally, with Niall's hands on both of their shoulders, Harry felt pieces of himself shrinking like they used to.  
  
Now, as the fire burns down, as the shadows of his mum's living room begin to dissipate, Harry pinches his thigh. He inflicts a small bit of pain, as punishment, for being stupid. Harry's supposed to be smart, one of the smartest, with the books he reads and the intelligent people he surrounds himself with across the globe. He pinches himself to train his thoughts, to remember how bitter he got before the last tour. That's what he remembers about the start of the year, his frayed edges, curled and shriveled, the colder he got. The more he closed himself off. He had to undo it, in between South America and the rest of the tour, before it got worse. Because Harry saw plain as day that bitterness is like a warm bath, it's enveloping and slow. You stew in it, relish in the warmth, until eventually you turn on the tap to get the water searing again, because even as you sit in your own filth, getting out into the cold air seems worse. So you fill it up again. Make it hotter.  
  
Harry's been good for months now, at keeping the thoughts away. He's been good at not blaming Zayn, remembering that Zayn's not the bad guy, not really. He reminds himself daily that this thing they have, the way they are, is completely self inflicted. Zayn at least learned to channel it elsewhere, has been good at letting the water out and stepping away from it.  
  
Harry hasn't taken a bath once.  
  
The fire still has some life left in it, thankfully, so Harry inches his feet slightly closer. The tree twinkles above him, the record continues to scratch. Zayn Malik isn't with Harry, in any sense of the word, and maybe tonight Harry can pretend like that's okay.

  
  
***

  
Harry doesn't wake up all at once, he's never done. It's like certain body parts get antsy before his brain recognizes the alarm clock or rising sun, when his feet dance before his first yawn, when his cock fattens before he can even touch the warm body next to him. So tonight it's no surprise that Harry slowly comes to with his fingers already running through his hair. He feels the movement before he opens his eyes, the track marks along his scalp, the rough nails near his temple.  
  
But then he realizes his hands are still holding his thighs from when he was pinching them earlier, and that's just strange. So he turns his head and cracks an eye open, to see Zayn's face mere inches from his own.  
  
"Y'alright babe?" he cocks a half smile, the bastard.  
  
Harry blinks. Zayn's there, under the Christmas tree with him, his own socked feet close to the dying fire alongside Harry's. Harry must've dozed for only an hour or so. He can smell Zayn's cologne. It's not fresh, but a day or two old, like when he's slept on it and hasn't showered, like when they get so busy they forget to take care of themselves properly.  
  
"Are you really here?" Harry huffs with a sharp breath.  
  
"M'here."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Gemma."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why d'you think?" Zayn moved closer, tugging Harry's face against his.  
  
They lay with their foreheads together, breathing in recycled air, back and forth. Harry wants to pinch his thigh, as punishment, to wake himself up, to spur himself into action. He's not supposed to let himself be warmed by Zayn like this, close or tender or sweet. It's not supposed to happen anymore.  
  
"When are you leaving?" Harry hears himself ask instead, bringing his hands to the arm Zayn has against his neck.  
  
"In the morning."  
  
It's easier this way, they both know it. To put a time limit on the night, on their time together. If the last year taught them anything, if the days leading up to Australia gave them any sort of clue, it's that this is it. This is all they have. It's all they will ever have.  
  
It was the same after the movie came out, when it was announced to the world that Zayn was irreversibly taken. One of the last nights they spent together for awhile, before promo and break, before the stadium tour, Zayn sucked a mark in Harry's thigh and said plain as day _I'm leaving first thing._ And he did, left before the sun came up, before Harry's bitter edges could curl more than ever.  
  
It was also the same after that night in Los Angeles, Niall's birthday, when Zayn grabbed him again. Harry felt Zayn's fingers on his back for days, after Zayn touched him like old times and pulled him close, to whisper about the after party. Harry held his in-ear between his trembling finger tips, eyes screwed up, as Zayn blew hot breath into his neck. When Harry touched his tongue to Zayn later, had him bent on all-fours in a hotel room, Harry huffed a quick _I'll be gone before she calls_ into his ass _,_ and he was.  
  
Zayn must remember how this has to work, their self imposed time constraint, so he nods against Harry's forehead, noses knocking. Zayn must remember that this, what they have, is because of him, is always because of him, because he brushes his lips against Harry's soft as anything to say sorry.  
  
Harry feels it in his stomach, feels it to the moon and back, the electrical current that travels back and forth. He holds Zayn's arm tighter, rings digging into his skin, and inhales his old cologne again. Maybe Zayn couldn't function without him now, maybe he forgot to shower and eat and change his socks. Maybe he had to leave her, to see Harry on Christmas Eve, to lay with him under a tree like an idiot because Harry's an idiot, his idiot.  
  
And maybe he's only Zayn's idiot on certain nights, every so often, because they can't stop. Maybe that's it and maybe they have to remember to hold on to it when they can.  
  
Zayn kisses him. Pulls Harry's hair to get them closer. Harry melts into it like always, holds tight. Their tongues brush and dance, wet and slick, Zayn's lips too chapped from forgetting lip balm for days on end. Harry bites his bottom lip, plumps it, gets the blood flowing again, to remind Zayn's head to repair the skin there, and Zayn groans into it. Harry pulls away, to kiss up his jaw, the sturdy bone and stubble beneath his lips, up to his ear, tongue around his new earrings.  
  
Zayn's hand finds its way up Harry's jumper, feeling, exploring the soft skin he used to blow raspberries into when they were bored. Harry can tell, can sense this is about to get too heavy for their present position.  
  
"Zayn," he exhales, worked up, pressing a hand to his chest.  
  
Zayn pulls away with wide eyes, licking his lips, irises blown.  
  
"S'my mum's tree," Harry juts his chin to the lit branches above them, the pine needles shaking slightly from their movement. "And I'm drunk."  
  
Harry watches Zayn's eyes bounce up through the branches, almost asks what he thought when he walked in to find Harry like this, nothing but a pair of legs. But the room is so quiet, the fire almost completely gone, and they need to move out from under it.  
  
Zayn looks back down to his face and runs a thumb across his cheek, catching on a dimple.  
  
"You wanna go do that one thing?" he smiles, like life is perfect and they do this all the time. Like maybe this is their house instead of Harry's mum's, that this is their tree and their presents underneath it, for their friends and family. Maybe it's their morning tea in a few hours instead of Anne's. Maybe they have a cat.  
  
Harry nods.  
  
"We gotta be quiet."  
  
"We always are."

  
  
***

  
Zayn's never been the most expressive man, even from the start. While the rest of the band were jumping up and down away from the cameras, crying when they got put together, Zayn could only nervously run his hands across his baggy jeans, joining in on the _this is gonna be sick, lads_ with a nervous laugh. Harry's pretty sure he had blue palms for weeks when the show started, from rubbing at the denim so often.  
  
He couldn't put into words how he felt about Harry, let alone tell him how he couldn't handle it. Harry had to find the truth like a gatherer, picking up bit by bit like he was lost out in the woods trying to find his way back to something he recognized. Zayn kissed him first, held his hand under a table for hours once, was the first person to touch Harry in a real way. He cried when his grandfather died, right on Harry's shoulder, but he didn't say a word.  
  
Harry had to hold it in his hands, cupped together, the small pieces Zayn gave him. He held it all so close, until Zayn had to quit him for good, when a nice girl showed up unexpectedly. Maybe Zayn saw his own mother in her, maybe not. Harry's never asked. But when she came to the premiere with a ring on her finger, her arm wrapped around Zayn's mum, Harry had to hold that piece close as well, the piece that Zayn told him, without ever really telling him, would never be his. Harry wonders if he'll have to give it to her eventually, that piece he thought he could keep.  
  
As it is, Harry knows tonight will be just like any other between them, stolen and hidden, before Zayn returns to his real life. To the life of Yaser's son. Harry figures he can pinch his own thigh tomorrow and save himself the pain for tonight. If he's going to sink into bitterness again, it won't be tonight.  
  
Harry closes his eyes to focus on his body, to soak it all in. The water splashes around them slightly, the lights low so his mum won't see the bathroom light on from the hall. This is a shared bathroom, the one upstairs with the massive bathtub, the one Harry used to play in as a child. Zayn's never seen it, never been in it with Harry. But it was a tradition they had during the second tour, when they were attached at the hip, to do this in any big bathtub in the nice hotels Harry insisted on sleeping in. At the time they'd burn Harry's candles, the vanilla and cedar wood ones. Zayn doesn't know that Harry's more into seasonal scents now, that the two candles burning on either side of the porcelain tub are holly and candy apple. If Harry craned his neck to see out the little window above them, he could probably see the feeble snow falling outside.  
  
Zayn's hands wind around Harry's waist, up and down his sides, along his thighs, feeling all over again. Harry tips his head back to lay it on Zayn's shoulder, swirling the water near the tap with his toes. Zayn spreads his legs a little further, kisses Harry's neck, and maybe he's letting himself have this as well.  
  
"Missed you," Harry exhales, eyes heavy. His buzz is gone, no longer hazy or clouded, more clear than he's been lately. But now he's tired.  
  
Zayn doesn't respond, but he missed him too, Harry knows. His fingertips say as much, the more they inch towards Harry's dick.  
  
"Can I guess what you were up to? Before I arrived?" Zayn supplies instead, reaching for the shampoo.  
  
Harry uses his big toe to twist the tap slightly, turning the practically boiling hot water on, to keep the water warm, the irony not lost on him entirely. Zayn kisses his neck again, the rough hair on his cheek tickling Harry's ear, fingers working across Harry's scalp. Harry remembers when Zayn could hardly grow hair on his face, when his cheeks were chubby and his shoes were too big for his feet. That's the Zayn Harry remembers best of all, oddly enough. The Zayn before the hurricane they've found themselves in, full of strangers and camera flashes.  
  
"Bet you sang songs with Robin," Harry feels Zayn's toothy smile against his skin. "Drank that wine you like. Anne made them custard tarts, the ones with the cherries, yeah?"  
  
Harry only nods. Of course Zayn's right about everything.  
  
"You crawled under the tree after they went to bed. Didn't kick your boots off 'til you were tits deep beneath it, almost knocked it over," Zayn chuckles.  
  
Zayn pushes at his shoulders slightly, for Harry to shift down and rinse his hair in the water. He obliges, follows Zayn like he always has. But when he shifts back up, hair over his forehead, he turns so he can look up into Zayn's eyes.  
  
"And then I was right here," Zayn's knuckles come from under the water, to rap at Harry's temple, frowning.  
  
"Talked to m'self as well," Harry tries to shrug. "Didn't want to think of you."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
He's not sorry, is the thing. Because for whatever reason, somewhere deep in a hidden part of his brain, something told him to see Harry tonight. It's like a gravitational pull brought them together, that told him to text Gemma, to fix Harry's night. To fix the awkwardness they'd been carrying around for weeks. They just don't do well apart, engagement ring or not.  
  
Harry turns his head back around, facing the tap again. The bathroom echoes slightly and the small splashes of water sound like tidal waves. Zayn's fingers continue to crawl across Harry's skin, over the tattoos on his thigh and hip bones, the ones he got for Zayn and then in spite of Zayn. He only briefly snags his thumbs in the rough hair at the base of Harry's cock, pulling a small gasp out of his lungs.  
  
"Want you to feel good," Zayn whispers, hands traveling up Harry's chest to his embarrassingly hard nipples.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So you forget the girls in New York," he bites Harry's neck.  
  
Harry's eyes snap shut, because of course Zayn knows about the girls in New York.  
  
"So I forget everything else," Zayn finishes with a sigh. "Want to forget."  
  
_Want to forget who I have to go home to,_ more like. If Harry didn't crave Zayn so fucking much, he'd bloody well tell him to fuck off once and for all, for doing this to him time after time. And if Zayn didn't see right through him, if Zayn weren't the more intelligent of the two to recognize what they have could never really work, tangibly, officially, he'd try to let Harry down easy.  
  
As it is, neither can really do what needs to be done, and here they are, back in a bathtub with aching cocks.  
  
Harry's done for about then, when the water starts to cool slightly. He turns on the tap with his toe, more warm water traveling from their feet towards their chests, and carefully shifts. He wants to feel Zayn, to feel the evidence. On cue, Zayn shifts as well, his cock slotting perfecting between Harry's ass, stiff and hot to the touch. They didn't use bubbles this time around, and Harry can sense Zayn peering over his shoulder through the water, to watch his own hands moving towards his cock.  
  
Harry's breath catches when Zayn's hand finally grips him, a little too hard at first, just right. Harry bites his lip as he simultaneously fucks into Zayn's fist and pushes back to feel him between his ass cheeks. The water careens around them and they're hardly moving. If Harry gave a shit, he'd try to control himself, to keep the sounds from escaping his mouth, to not give it all away at once. But he can't, he can never control it once it starts.  
  
"You let anyone else here?" Zayn shifts, chin moving to Harry's other shoulder, fingers walking down his lower back slowly, towards his ass.  
  
Harry's got both of Zayn's hands on him now, and it's just as good as he remembers.  
  
"No."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Wasn't worth it," Harry's face contorts in pain, as the rough pad of Zayn's finger pushes in just so.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Zayn, I swear."  
  
"Alright, babe," Zayn sighs, like it's a chore. "Let's see it then."  
  
Harry's chin drops to his chest with an exhale, surprised and resigned all once. He should've known Zayn would get like this. He can hardly lay claim to Harry in any way, and yet, he sort of did when they were seventeen. They both did. Harry used to strop about it, at Zayn asking questions and demanding he tell the truth. Harry spit at him once, asked that if he kissed Zayn, if he'd taste Perrie's cunt on his chin. Zayn almost backhanded him for it.  
  
But Harry's never let anyone touch him the way Zayn has. And even though he could kick and scream that Zayn has no right, Harry still offers himself like a prized animal some nights. So he does.  
  
Harry slowly sits up and away from Zayn's chest, moving his body so he's on his hands and knees, pruned skin against the warm porcelain of the tub. It's the most vulnerable he'll ever be, he thinks, whenever he shows himself like this to Zayn. And Zayn knows, because he's done the same for Harry, tucked away in Italian hotels and American bus stops, if you can believe it. So Zayn always takes care of him, always makes him feel just right.  
  
His hands part Harry's ass delicately, thumbs resting just on either side of his hole, digging into his skin slightly. Harry could lean forward a little and his face would knock into the tap, if he really thought he deserved it. But he keeps his head tucked down, chin against his chest, as Zayn looks and looks.  
  
"S'nice," Zayn kisses his thick thigh first. "Still mine, I reckon."  
  
"It is," Harry almost cries, skin cold in the open air, needing that pressure he's only ever chased with Zayn.  
  
Harry said that to Zayn once, after they'd fought like rabid cats backstage at a radio festival. Harry had ripped Zayn's shirt in anger, when trying to pull him against his chest, before he could run away and call Danny to blow off steam, before he could reach for a cigarette, before he could call the girl he had waiting at home. Zayn's eyes flashed in anger, at Harry's _you're supposed to be mine,_ before shoving at Harry. The _no Harry, you're mine, not the other way around_ was clear, especially moments later when Zayn shoved his tongue in Harry's mouth and dropped to his knees. Harry saw stars when he came down Zayn's throat, and knew all over again that he truly was Zayn's, even if Zayn couldn't be his in return.  
  
Harry feels the first touch of Zayn's tongue run in a circle around his entrance, tasting him after so long, humming slightly. It's jarring every single time, to feel Zayn in such an intimate place, in such a position. The first time they did this, Harry came so hard, he swears he bruised a rib. So now as they get off in his mum's bathroom, with candles reminding them it's the holidays, trying to keep quiet, Harry tries not to remember it. He'll come too soon.  
  
"Tell me," Zayn says into his skin, pulling him further apart with his thumbs, kissing the ring of muscle once, twice, three times.  
  
"S'good," Harry huffs, fingers scratching at the tub. "S'good, babe. So… so good."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Harry's cock is practically purple with need, flushed and hard between his legs. Zayn knows, runs his tongue down from his ass towards his balls, to the seam of them, across his perineum again and again. Harry bites his lip harder, his arms shaking from holding himself up, his toes curling against Zayn's thighs, and it's still not enough.  
  
Zayn dips his tongue back to Harry's hole, wet and puckering now. His thumbs pull at him harder as he opens him up, slips his tongue in again and again, firm now, to breech him. He runs his tongue flat, licking him over, before slipping it back in, in quick succession now. Harry gives up, pushes back at Zayn's face, chases the stretch. His breath comes out in quick pants, it's too much. It won't be enough soon.  
  
"You know what I want?" Zayn huffs out, licking him up and down.  
  
Harry doesn't answer, his voice doesn't work.  
  
"Want to come right here," Zayn slides two fingers in. Harry's back arches, his entire body seizes up at the intrusion.  
  
"Do it. Do it. Do it."  
  
"But not you. Not yet."  
  
"Okay. Okay," Harry nods, voice husky and pained, lying. He won't last, he can't possibly last.  
  
Zayn pushes at Harry slightly, careful to keep his face away from the tap, pulling his legs from under Harry to clamber up to his knees. They're knocking into the tub too much now, Harry prays no one wakes up, prays the house stays as quiet as a mouse, prays that they're the only two creatures stirring. He actually huffs out a laugh, remembering the poem from earlier, his sad little expression under the tree.  
  
"M'serious, H. Don't come," Zayn slides his fingers between Harry's ass cheeks. "Say it."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Say it again."  
  
"I won't come."  
  
Harry briefly wonders what Zayn grabbed in his haste, but is answered when the fresh scent of baby oil hits his nose. He knows he's flushed, his cheeks bright red from embarrassment, at using the baby oil his mum uses to keep her skin soft, to lube his ass. But Zayn must not care, or if he does, he probably loves the fact that Harry's embarrassed, always has done.  
  
But all thought is thrown out the window, as Harry keens at the fingers shoving their way inside his body. It's two, slick and sliding together, Zayn's nails short because he's so polite. Probably cut them that morning, when he pondered if he should see Harry over the holidays.  
  
It only lasts a minute or two, both of them too overwhelmed to take it slow now. Zayn stretches him out, sucks more sounds from Harry's mouth like they're currency and he doesn't have enough cash for a cab ride home. His other hand lays flat against Harry's lower back, pushing and pulling him in all at once, the sounds of their skin ricocheting around the bathroom.  
  
Zayn doesn't ask if Harry's ready, doesn't have to, when he removes his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock. Harry's hands and knees ache from the porcelain, the water too cool to feel good now, and yet it feels like he's soaring on a cloud. Maybe they're in their own bathroom, fucking on a lazy Wednesday night before they head off to work early in the morning. Maybe they're so happy, they don't know what it feels like to ache.  
  
Harry's chin hits his chest as Zayn sinks into him, raw like they haven't done in a year. They must realize it at the same time, both of their lungs expanding too quickly, as their skin lights up against each other without a condom. Zayn leans in as he bottoms out, his sharp hips hitting the flesh of Harry's ass, the ass that's wider than Zayn's entire body now.  
  
"Make me come, yeah?" Zayn whines, fingers digging into Harry's thighs.  
  
"M'gonna make you come," Harry whispers, afraid of his full voice. "Gonna make you."  
  
"Make me."  
  
Harry does. He pushes back against Zayn, with a force he's not sure he ever had before, as Zayn snaps forward. They sound fucking beautiful like this, Harry thinks again, their skin slapping, lungs heaving, words mumbled. It's like music.  
  
Zayn knows Harry Styles better than anyone on the planet then, when he brings his right hand to Harry's cock and squeezes him at the base, to hold him off. Harry cries out, clenches around him, and then Zayn's coming in his ass, his other hand on the back of Harry's neck. It's rushed, the longer he pumps into Harry, filling him up, over and over.  
  
Harry's face slides into a grin, the cheeky one he used to toss out like it'll cost you, at the rush he feels. It's never gotten old, making Zayn Malik come. Tossing Zayn off the high dive of a swimming pool, even if he's scared or unsure. Even if it'll hurt a little. It's always worth it. He'd definitely enjoy it a little more, if he were allowed to come alongside him, but he picks his battles.  
  
Zayn breathes through the comedown, his hands tightening on Harry's cock and neck. He slips out and very nearly falls back on his ass in the tub, catching himself just in time as he sits with a thud. Harry's creaky body, much too old for as young as he is, shifts so he can be up on his knees. He rubs his palms, his arms spent. His poor cock practically screams at him. He needs Zayn to reach around, to pull him off, to suck him down, something.  
  
Right as Harry turns at the waist, to beg if he has to, he feels Zayn's hand wrap around his knee. They lock eyes, Zayn blinking slowly.  
  
"Your turn," he blinks again.  
  
Harry nods, ready for whatever Zayn will offer. The water's getting too cold, they're starting to get goose pimples.  
  
"Fuck me," Zayn brings a hand up to his head, to scratch at the long hair dripping down past his shoulders at this point.  
  
He's at ease, as always, but Harry sees the flash behind his eyes, the intensity there. He needs it.  
  
Harry stares at him as his cock jumps painfully. They haven't done it in so long, haven't done it the other way around since that time in Edinburgh, one of the last times. They had fought twice, over the same shit they always fight over, Harry's bitterness and Zayn's tied hands. But Harry fucked him good, fucked him so hard, Zayn almost cried afterwards.  
  
Zayn applies pressure to Harry's knee to get a move on. Harry could contemplate it more, go over it in his head a few more times, but he's so hard, it's beginning to hurt. So he turns to let the water out, to pull the plug, and slowly rises from the tub. Zayn gets out ahead of him though, moves across the large bathroom to lean against the counter stocked full of beauty products. There's a stray false eyelash, a bottle of moisturizer. They lock eyes in the mirror, Zayn readying himself with white knuckles on the edge, dripping water all over the floor.  
  
Harry gets to him in two long strides, pushes right up against his back so Zayn can feel him. Harry's so much taller now, at least in comparison to how they used to be. He's broad and thick, his deceivingly delicate hands wrap around Zayn's slim waist.  
  
It surprises him, when he brings his hand between Zayn's ass, to not find as much resistance as he expected. When he looks back up to the mirror, Zayn looks so serene with his eyes closed.  
  
"Got ready before I came, didn't I?" he tries to smile, getting about half way, before sliding back to a frown. "In my art room."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Said I wanted to paint. Said I needed the space to get it out," he winces slightly as Harry runs a finger across his hole, still wet with soapy water.  
  
"She believe you?"  
  
Zayn doesn't answer, as he pushes back at Harry's fingers. He's chasing it now, chasing what Harry always runs towards himself. So Harry grabs for the baby oil now and slicks himself up fast as anything. He wants to last as long as he can, to make it good, to make it hurt. If they're going to do it raw, if they're going to do this like real couples do, he'll do it, make it hurt good.  
  
Harry's eyes roll back in his skull as he presses into Zayn, that tightness he swears he's dreamt about. Zayn hisses, his knuckles whiter than ever as he grips the hard surface in front of him. Harry can't help but watch his face in the mirror, his eyes still closed, his hair long and wild on his forehead and across his shoulders. They almost match now, two little vagabonds who detest being styled if they can help it. Harry never asked if Zayn grew his hair out for this very purpose, so they could borrow hairbands and share tips, hats and scarves and gel. Harry has two hairbands on his wrist at the moment, he could easily do Zayn's up for him. Maybe someday he will. Maybe someday Zayn will let him.  
  
Zayn's hard again, Harry realizes as he brings a hand to himself, to jerk in time with Harry's thrusts. Harry knocks his hand away and grips him, his forefinger catching on the slit, Zayn's cut dick a thing of beauty.  
  
"Harry," Zayn whispers, back arching.  
  
"Gonna come like this? Again?" Harry grunts into his shoulder, losing control. It's happening too fast.  
  
"Make me."  
  
"I'll always make you, babe," Harry whispers, says the one truth neither of them have ever been able to shake. "I'll make you."  
  
Harry comes first, his entire face buried in Zayn's neck, body tensing up and releasing like he hasn't in weeks it seems. The girls in New York, Jeff's friend in LA, none of them, no one, can make Harry come like Zayn. Zayn knows it, Harry knows it. And when Zayn comes a second time, pained and shaking, they both know it's the same for Zayn as well.  
  
The comedown is the same, Harry slipping out of Zayn as gingerly as he can, both of them breathing through it. Harry can't let go yet, just leans his entire gangly body against Zayn's, head resting on his shoulder. He's so tired. He could very well stay there all night, until it occurs to him.  
  
Zayn starts to push off from the counter, his come sticking to his thigh, as he makes a face at it.  
  
"Well," Harry smiles into Zayn's skin, "guess I got me white Christmas after all."  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes, but they end up laughing so hard, they each slap a pruney hand to each others' mouths, fit to burst.

  
  
***

  
Twenty minutes later, as the snow falls heavier, sticking to the cold English ground, they stand near the back door and watch it settle. Zayn made them tea while Harry got them each a pair of joggers and wool socks, carefully slinking down the hall past his parents' door. All seemed still and quiet, no sounds from the other side of it, and Harry thinks they pulled it off. They got good at being quiet when it counted, and tonight's no different.  
  
Harry sneaks a look at Zayn, at his calm face looking out over the field near the house. His tattoos stand out on nights like this, when they bite into skin and taste the aftermath, and Harry wants nothing more than to reach out and trace a few. But he keeps his hands to himself, drawing his arms in to hold them close. Zayn's hair lays against his neck, still damp. So Harry grabs for the hairband around his wrist and wordlessly hands it over.  
  
"You can have it."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
They both put their hair up at the same time, in identical buns.  
  
Soon enough, they'll be back on tour. They'll be back to Harry and Zayn of One Direction, either hiding from the world or tossing themselves at it willingly. There's no in between these days. Harry will go back to LA, or wherever the wind blows him he supposes, while Zayn will return to his non-Christmas-celebrating house, to his paint and pets and the other P word Harry tends to forget how to spell.  
  
But maybe this time will be different. Because Harry steals another glance and sees it, the scratch Zayn puts on the inside of his left wrist, the pain he inflicts on himself as punishment, for being stupid, not unlike the pinches Harry applies to his thighs some nights.  
  
Harry reaches out to grab his hand, to stop him before he can start. Zayn looks at him and blinks.  
  
Maybe this time won't be filled with bitterness and anger. Maybe they won't fight. Maybe they'll be fine. And maybe this is another lie they tell with their eyes, before they separate like they used to. Maybe maybe maybe.  
  
Zayn shrugs his shoulders, unsure. Harry knocks their hips together.  
  
Maybe in some other universe, they're happy. Maybe this is their house instead of Harry's mum's, maybe it's their tree and their presents in the other room, for their friends and family. Maybe it's their morning tea in a few hours instead of Anne's. Maybe they have a cat.

Zayn squeezes Harry's hand harder, their fingers not quite intertwined, still wrinkled from the bath. Their eyes travel out towards the snow covered fields, the fence beyond it, the trees that look like a painting.  
  
"Merry Christmas, babe."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Zayn."  
  
The snow sticks for days.

 

 

  *


End file.
